


A History of Luna Park

by ManyManyMonsters



Category: Captain America (Movies), Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Angst, Cats, Crossover, Dogs, F/M, Fluff, Ghosts, Hauntings, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, If Bucky's involved there's always angst, If I'm honest angst probably comes before humor, M/M, Mostly MCU compliant through Black Panther, Not Infinity War compliant, Other, Recovery, You're expecting me to type 'living together' now..., at least I hope humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-03-31 02:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13965540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManyManyMonsters/pseuds/ManyManyMonsters
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes has returned to Brooklyn minus an arm and with a full schedule to manage his PTSD. Patty Tolan, a history buff, hasn't figured out her casual crush is an actual relic.





	1. The Library Ghost

This was how Patty liked her Tuesdays to start: a walk across town with egg on a bun from the counter across from Union Square and Hershell’s coffee, so strong and black she needed three or four sugars. Both were warm in her hands against the crisp fall air, as she breakfasted on a bench just across from the two regal marble lions.

“Morning, boys,” She smiled at Patience and Fortitude while tossing her napkin and cup, and then, all fueled, wiggled up the steps to discover if her favorite ghost was haunting the central library.

Ok, not really.  Not a _ghost-ghost_ …

But oh! Baby boy! Maybe he wasn’t a ghost, but he was here, just like she was here... A LOT. 

And in the same sections! Geneology, Architecture, anything in the city and region-specific history stacks. Surely they must have some things in common, right? A few times she’d noticed him in photo records. She didn’t bother him and he didn’t bother her — far from that. He was so pretty, the sight of his familiar quiet form flipping pages or slipping out large folios, well, it just made her happy. 

And this was her JOB now. 

Ok, noticing cute regulars at the library wasn’t, but research duty was, which was also her favorite thing… Patty had a LOT of favorite things lately.

Seriously. How could she be so lucky? She could love on New York and every detail of the city itself, or its history recorded in these pages, all to her heart’s content in the clean and comfort of the library, _and she got eye candy to boot?_

Unreal.

So, in addition to also apparently digging history, baby boy was soft spoken with dark brown, just grab-able, sleek jaw-length hair, soulful blue-grey eyes, a trim ass and lovely broad shoulders that did not quit — despite the fact that one of his shoulders, his left shoulder, just ended right there at the joint. Why?

 

As she made it to her floor, scanning her notes on her new tablet, she made a little hopeful sweep of the seating area and down each aisle of the stacks as she headed for the empty table she’d spied… 

Nope. 

Nope.

Bingo. He had his head cocked like a quizzical puppy, examining the spines on a shelf of oversized books.

And today, just like every day she’s seen him, that one empty sleeve was pinned up. She felt her heart both swell then squeeze a little before she hurried on.

Claiming the free table, She emptied her satchel and got to work. She didn’t want to stare, not at the injury at least, but damn if her man of mystery wasn’t just bee’s wing fine and she’s an investigator, alright? Of course, she’s curious. What on earth happened little soldier boy?

She shook it off to go grab the first book she needed, and pretty soon she was eyeball deep in some maps of early bridge work and focused on her note taking. 

Ok, not so focused she didn’t hope a bit for him to wander across her line of sight again… but still. You enjoyed a peek, Patricia, now let the man be.

And like always, that was the end of it, really. Until later, when she’d collected a pile of research and had half a dozen tomes open before her, a chair scrape across the table made her look up over the green glass reading lamps. 

Oh. 

Well hello.

His eyes flicked down and back to her, and she couldn’t miss that he had a very large, very heavy looking book of photos awkwardly wedged under his good arm.

She gave him a little nod, then glanced at the privacy carrels packed with NYU students and her haphazard mess all over the table. Without a word, she quickly stacked and slid some of her books away, allowing him the full other half of the small table. He returned the nod, the corners of his mouth crooking up in just a hint of a smile of thanks as he took the space.

Patty kept her cool though. They were in accord then, to do their reading and research on this quiet little island, away from the laptop squinters, the headphone-clad video watchers and the noisy ebb and flow of parents and guardians coaxing kids to the children’s section and story time.

Oh, but this was officially the _best_ Tuesday. That’s right, sweetheart. Just sit down and peruse your book on Coney Island and Luna Park. Are you a romantic? I’m going to imagine sharing a pony with you on the carousel. This can be our version of a Patty date, okay? I won’t bother you…

She returned to her vintage bridge schematics, feeling a little warm squeeze in her chest.

 

But back at the station, she just stepped in it. Maybe it was because it was the best Tuesday ever that she opened her big mouth over lunch?

The simplicity of the situation seemed lost on her coworkers, and they were staring at her expectantly around the table.

“Then what?” Abby nodded encouragingly.  Holtzmann grinned and elbowed her knowingly.

“Then nothing. We shared the table.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, so after an hour he got a message or something and left.”

“That’s it?” Abby huffed, putting down her sandwich and shoving her glasses up with a thumb. “You’ve seen this dude a dozen times and when he sits with you, you didn’t even talk to him?”

Erin shook her head, confused. “I thought you said it was a date.”

“Not literally! Grow a sense of humor—“

“Where’s his arm?” This from Holtzmann.

Patty groaned. The only one not slamming questions at her was Kevin, who seemed to be distracted by that gummy stuff that held his new insurance card to its delivery letter. If their adjuster saw this, she was sure they’d be looking at higher premiums.

She threw up her hands. “We’re at work! I’m not a stalker! It is what it is.” She told them. “And I’ll take it. Baby boy’s just nice to look forward to.”

“But still.”Jillian insisted. “His arm. Where is it?” Good grief. Of course, Holtzmann was more concerned about his equipment or lack thereof. At least she wasn’t pushing her to try to talk to him or ask him out. 

“What do you mean? You don’t just ask people that. ‘Hey, did a shark bite it off? You forget it on the subway?’ Get real. Anyway, he kind of moves a little shy. Like he’s not quite balanced. I don’t think he’s been without it for long, you know?”

Erin made a sympathetic whimper and clutched her hands over her heart. She even did the little head tilt.

“Oh for Pete’s sake why did I have to say anything?” Patty rolled her eyes. “My mystery man doesn’t need your sympathy. He is cut like the guys at Ladder 42 or the Navy docks. I bet he could bench press me with the one good arm.”

“And you’d let him do it too, wouldn’t you?” Abby waggled her eyebrows.

“Shut up. You know I would.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I don’t know how he lost his arm! Okay?”

“No, no, no,” Jillian blew a wet raspberry impatiently. “I don’t care about that.  Where’s his prosthesis?”

Suddenly her obsessive morbid curiosity made sense. It was an engineering problem, not tragic backstory intrigue.

“No clue.” Patty was ready to be done with this. “I’m sure he’s waiting eagerly for whatever super book-grabbing, flame-throwing spitfire you come up with.” She sighed and shouldered her bag to head for her locker.

Holtzmann called after her. “Okay, but I’ll need more information. Possibly some measurements and definitely a mold or two. When did you say you’re going back?”

“No. Just no. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Tuesdays, right? I can make time next Tuesday—“

“Abby! This is why we can’t have nice things. Distract your girl. History recon and library duty is my glee-club.”

But Erin intercepted instead. “Right.” She grabbed Jilly’s elbow and steered her away. “Let’s focus on finishing some of your other projects before we branch out into pro-bono stuff, okay?”

But the engineer was still grinning and giving Patty a wink over her shoulder. “Tuesday.” She nodded knowingly, shooting a finger gun. “Because you deserve two arms to hold you, my dear!”

 

 

 

 


	2. The Phantom of Wakanda

  
Everything for James Barnes was structure and routine now.  
And that was fine. Safe. Reassuring.  
  
When he’d been brought out of the cold this time, hand to God, he thought he’d died. Must have. Everything was warm and fuzzy, clean and soft… Heavy heated blankets, gentle hands and kind voices. Angels, right? He hadn’t thought Heaven would look like a lush equatorial rainforest, but then again he hadn’t always stayed awake in church.

  
As it turned out, it wasn’t the afterlife. Although the familiar slim woman greeting him when he woke did have a devilish smile…

  
To him Shuri would always be an angel, though she’d probably snort to hear that. Or maybe a magician? Arriving in Wakanda, freshly beat to hell by Stark, he watched her take only moments to grasp how much pain he was in. Something about the metal reinforcements in his spine and the ripped apart feedback connections — either way, she dampened it immediately with some electromagnetic device and set to work figuring out how to reroute and cap the raw artificial nerves. “Better? Good. Now you can relax while I solve this little puzzle you’ve brought me.”

  
This time when he saw her, cocooned in a warming bed, she had explained that since he’d gone under, the Wakandan intelligence had done recon to find and piece together more information on the Winter Soldier program. They scavenged the base and the abandoned bodies of the other subjects in Siberia. “A terrible job, but it was very valuable. All of this data they supplied, it helped me form a model of precisely how you were controlled and how to help.”

  
He’d blinked, muzzy, but trying hard to understand. “It’s still in me?” He managed.

  
Her eyes widened and then she chuckled. “Of course. We’re still waiting for your American health insurance approval.”

  
While he didn’t get the joke, he understood sarcasm, and smirked a little to be teased.

  
She relented. “No Sergeant Barnes,” She said more gently. “I would have your comprehension and consent. Always now, your choices should be yours.”  
  
A few days later, when he’d had a chance to recover more from the cryo, she went into greater detail. “You will need to work to fill in the gaps, and some sections of the memory loss from the wipes may be permanent,” She’d told him, not unkindly, “I wish to be honest. However, with your serum and what is being learned of neural plasticity, there is every reason to be hopeful. But concretely, I have identified and can safely remove the internal physical triggers, which were key to their control programming. And my algorithm to deactivate the trigger words — all that you have, recovered memories, repressed ones, everything, it will all be safe and untouched. All of the scans of you have confirmed my findings. Your mind will be your own.”

  
And that was the hell of it, wasn’t it? Shuri didn’t just yank him out of the freezer and give it a try. She didn’t discuss it with Steve before hand. First and foremost, she woke up Rip Van Winkle and only when James was oriented and up for it, did she and her research and medical team carefully explain what they’d found and felt they could do.  It was his decision. He got to choose if, when, and how to tell Steve. (He chose immediately.) And he got time to consider what they offered and to ask questions and decide yes or no.

  
But what a world was this to be a damaged refugee? What about Stark? If he took the treatment and stayed out of cryo, was he exiled to hiding in Wakanda the same as he hid in Bucharest?  

  
  
And then how bizarre was it to be greeted with Stark himself emerging from one of Shuri’s devices, his streamed upper half appearing pint-size, but 3-D, like a genie emerging from a bottle? “Don’t you worry your hot-wired little head about it, Snowflake. The world has been busy this — what’s it been? About a year?”

  
“Thirteen months.” Steve confirmed.

  
“Right. And while certain concessions have been made, so have a LOT of amends. You’ve been cleared for one. And lucky you, I’ve been given the privilege of developing a new lefty for you when the time comes. Won’t that be fun? Pepper suggested blue to set off your eyes.”

  
  
Like most situations with Stark, just trying to parse Tony’s words made James’ head spin. He tried to follow the blur of activity and discussions in the days and weeks that followed, but ultimately opted for having Steve and T’Challa sit in with him on these complex meetings.  Shuri, the doctors and counselors explained every step, showed him more 3-D models that melted in the air, as well as maps of him inside and out traced in fine colored lights. He couldn’t follow more than the broad strokes of how it would be done, so he relied on his gut feeling of faith in Shuri’s testing and confidence. In the end, he simply agreed to every protocol they suggested from surgery, to therapy, to allowing Stark to set him up in an apartment in Brooklyn for his transition and recovery. Steve took the unit next door and Sam transferred to the VA in New York and took up residence at the Tower providing consulting services to the Stark Foundation.

  
Hence the return home and the structured schedule. With the exception of Stark referring to he and Steve as Burt and Ernie — whatever the hell that meant — James couldn’t be anything other than grateful.  
  
Mornings were breakfast, black decaf, shower, teeth and PT spinal stretches on the floor. Then Skype check in with the therapist.  
Wednesday was that morning routine, picking up groceries, the gym, late lunch with Steve and then group at the VA with Sam.  
Thursday was the AM routine, a jog and then virtual classes (where the computer taught him to do even more things on the computer), lunch delivered and an afternoon of dog walking at the Sean Casey Animal Rescue, then dinner with Steve and maybe cards or a movie while they did laundry.  
Friday: AM routine, physical therapy appointment, gym again, lunch delivered then clean the apartment before an evening of reading.  
Sat: AM routine. Then the animal shelter again, but all day — load the van for adoption day, wash and groom dogs, clean cat boxes and work on the never ending piles of hairy soiled laundry. It felt really good to be useful.  
Sun: AM routine. Also, Steve. Steve planned Sundays. Even a routine needed a wild card, right?  
Monday: see Thursday  
Tuesday: AM routine and the Library. Then late lunch and outside exposure therapy and exploration. After researching locations and photos, he would map out a route and walk a section of Brooklyn. Was he searching for something? Trying to find the familiar, or to make all this familiar again? Trying to acclimate to the present day horns and hum and chatter and noise without the dampening and fine tuning of those damn wires in his back and arm and brain?  
It was difficult for him to know.

  
Sometimes it was a good day. Cherry blossoms and bonsai trees at the botanical gardens. Kids exploring the little bridges and flinging pellets for the koi. Other times it was not good. He’d wandered across an Easter pageant ceremony in the Greek Orthodox neighborhood. The sight of a bloody Christ carrying his cross and rows of Roman soldiers incongruously mixed with people in street clothes lining the sidewalk… Everything fell apart and the cold chemical flush of anxiety washed in. His head tingled, his hands were ice cold. He saw ashen faces, muzzle flashes, and frantically pressed away from the crowd and images, without knowing where or how he did so… …Curled up on himself saying a name, a number, again and again. Don’t touch. Don’t strike. Don’t fire…

  
But still, somehow, routine had saved him.

  
He had a medic alert bracelet; tagged like one of the shelter dogs…

  
…And then he was in a quiet garage office, seated and shaking on a small couch, and Steve and Sam were there talking to some firemen.  
“I fucked up.” He’d grimaced at Sam, realizing what must have happened.

  
“No man. No. You didn’t do anything — except maybe have a flashback? And that was some messed up shit. Who’d be expecting that?” Sam soothed. “And you know what?”

  
“What?”

  
“On the third day there was Xanax.”

  
He’d actually laughed at that. And he didn’t know which he was more grateful for: his own laugh or the look of relief it brought Steve and Sam to see.

  
  
Mood stabilizers and Xanax were good. And while on the whole, he felt like he’d been dismantled, reduced back to just the scarred human body of a regular guy, he wasn’t. Getting any sort of time released antidepressant or med strong enough for his serum enhanced metabolism was tricky. He could eat a week’s prescription a day and still have trouble reaching a therapeutic dose, or his body would burn through each as he took them, stone skipping through tiny windows of almost-relief. No. The regular people stuff was no help, but as Stark said, “I know a guy.” Which meant he knew a formulary compounding pharmacist who rose to the challenge to mix drug suspensions in a benign slow-dissolve polymer and then layer them until he produced custom super soldier doses of Prozac and Xanax that operated in the digestive tract much like Wonka’s Ever Lasting Gobstoppers. Prozac was daily, but Xanax was there for the acute, the surprise and the emergency. Sam coached him on breathing, body awareness and redirecting his attention, encouraging him when he could find his way out of the panic loop with these tools or reassuring him from feeling too bad when he needed help from the pill. And Steve? Steve was just solid. There. Always there. Ready to reinforce what Sam said or offer a joke or a memory that pierced back through the choppy water and labyrinth of his messed up head to a shared past; a life line to some sense of familiarity and self.

  
  
Today was Thursday, and right on schedule, he was out with his last canine charge of the day, an enormous grey-faced Chow Golden Retriever type mix. It was definitely autumn now, not that the chill bothered the thick coated animal or James who’d tugged on his leather jacket. The pair crossed over to Fort Hamilton allowing James to take the dog along the outside of the Green Wood Cemetery. Here, the trees even had a little fall color, it was quieter and the gates and borders offered peeks inside of some of the beautiful old buildings and stone work. The park was way too large to make a circuit around it, so he kept an eye on the time and how winded the older dog became, planning to just flip around and retrace their route back.

  
The giant pacing bear of an animal was pretty spry though, and even by Chester Street showed no sign of slowing.

  
“Lotta miles left, huh pal? Hang on. ” James stopped the dog and pulled out his phone to check the time. It was getting dark, but he figured he could text Steve if he was going to be late. “Gonna have to start back soon.”

  
The dog glanced back, although it had too much hair for its eyes to be seen, and tugged to keep right on padding forward. But when James steered him around, the animal agreeably began marching the opposite way.

  
“You’re a machine, huh tough guy?” He chuckled and gripped his phone, unable to pocket it with his arm stretched out by the leash. He could text Steve once he dropped the dog off. It wasn’t that late yet.

  
But when they started in front of the Green Wood east entrance, the dog slowed to a stop. It lifted its head, snuffling, then tugged towards the first open grassy lawn broken by the white and grey marble towers.

  
“No buddy. No pets in that park.” Bucky chuckled, guiding the dog back. He’d better go ahead and send the text. Pulling up some slack in the leash, he stepped on it to hold the dog while he thumbed the message out on his screen.

  
The dog whined.

  
Hitting send, James looked and huffed a laugh. The dog was staring, he thought longingly, into the enormous park’s entrance. He pocketed the phone and took up the slack. “C’mon now.”

  
But the dog was an immovable statue, tracking something far ahead. It whined again and cocked its head a little, its curled hairy donut of a tail beginning a quick eager wag over its back.

  
Following the dog’s line of sight, Bucky didn’t see anything in the dimming light. Then something slunk out from behind one monument, a quick black form among the shadows, and vanished behind a hedge.

  
James blinked, shivering, unsure.

  
Shadows or a stray? If it was a stray, it was large.

  
By the time he’d convinced himself it was just shapes from the growing dark, it appeared again. Four long legs, and a thin shaggy whip-tall body. It paused, turning its head to them, and James froze at being regarded with two yellow coin eyes, glowing.

  
He fumbled and tugged the leash back, blinking, and the thing had vanished.


	3. Ghost in the Machine

  
“It wasn’t an Easter Parade moment.” Bucky insisted, though he still clearly looked prickly and anxious. He’d told Steve about the shadowy probably-a-dog thing as they’d picked up dinner and returned to James’ apartment. Now Steve watched him quickly flip open the pizza box and turn it to him, deflecting. “I swear. I’m fine. It was just weird.”

  
Steve took the bait and grabbed a slice, ready to maintain normalcy and not needle him. “Got it. Would’ve startled me too.”

  
“It could have been a stray, or it could have been, you know, I’m handling dogs, it’s twilight and hard to see - sometimes you don’t see what you thought you saw.”

  
Rogers eyes flicked up, but he covered it with a mild nod as he chewed. It was rare that Bucky ever acknowledged ambivalent glitchy type things. Out and out hallucinations or dreams, sure. Those he could describe and clearly define as a byproduct of meds or withdrawal or flashback and absolutely not real.  But while he’d cop to obvious memory loss and gaps, he avoided anything in the gray areas: things like his eyes playing tricks on him or losing time he didn’t like to mention. Steve thought maybe it was an old sniper thing. Eyes and timing were all you had.

  
“So the shelter… That cross-eyed cat still there?” He changed the subject.

  
“Ug. God, yes.” James groaned with a laugh. “How? Why? Someone’s gotta take him. That guy is hilarious. They had him in one of the visiting rooms and he kept popping his head over the divider to look in the office cubes. He pans his head side to side trying to get a bead on things.  It looked like we were being scanned with a cat periscope.”

  
Steve smiled and looked around the apartment. “You know…” He wafted his open palms around.

  
“Right. No.”

  
“Why not?”

  
Bucky spun the pizza box around and ferreted out another slice of pepperoni. “‘Cause I’m not some crazy spinster cat lady. And I’m not explaining a pet deposit to Stark.”

  
“Tony offered you a therapy animal.”

  
“A llama. He offered me a llama.”

  
Steve smirked. “Or an alpaca.”

  
“Ok. Whatever. I get my animal time in, okay? I’m not ready to bring one home.”

  
Steve let it drop with an agreeable shrug. Needling Buck about it every now and then was fine, but he actually took James’ reticence to dive in with a pet as a good sign. A self-aware sign. Since he’d been back in Brooklyn, Bucky seemed to lean heavily on his military training, embracing order and routine. Sam said it was a control thing and Steve had watched him go from a sort of silent robotic enactment of daily life, to gradually breathing again. If he said he wasn’t ready, Steve knew it was better to believe him.

 

  
After Wakanda, new-to-Brooklyn James 2.0 flinched at being responsible for a houseplant, read the expiration dates on all food and rotated it accordingly and made his bed each morning with hospital corners. Periodically he sat in a dark room with his back to the interior wall instead of sleeping— something Steve and he were both painfully aware of but never discussed. Hyper-vigilance Sam called it.

  
At first Steve was unnerved. Bucky hadn’t been like this in Wakanda. Coming out of the cryo slowly and without the tender ministrations of Hydra’s electroshock, adrenaline and amphetamine jump start, plus whatever else they’d pumped into him, James was as beat up as when he’d gone under and weak from not feeding his revved up metabolism. Super soldiers weren’t made to fast or hibernate. He’d been muzzy and docile, but not anxious.

  
Not that Steve wasn’t worried then. Far from it. He’d been briefed on brain damage, trauma… a whole world of possibilities of what could be expected, and at the time, he’d seemed to hold his breath too.

  
He remembered sitting by James’ bed helping him with the lunch the medical staff had approved. It was only a small dish, maybe a cup at most, but Steve knew from talking to the doctor that the beige fluff was custom made for their metabolism: nutrient dense and ridiculously calorie-rich, all while looking innocently light and bland.

  
“Looks sort of like Greek yogurt.” Steve had mused spooning Buck another small bite. “Is it any good?”

  
Bucky worked it in his mouth and swallowed slowly, blinking and taking a breath. “S’okay,” He managed, “For baby food.”

  
Steve’s mouth crooked at the corner. “What’s it taste like?”

  
Another breath and more sleepy blinks as Buck considered. “Cinnamon? Vanilla? I dunno… Try it.”

  
If Bucky had to eat it, Steve was game. He scooped up a spoonful and immediately made a face. “Ugh. Banana!” He blanched and grimaced, forcing himself to swallow and not spit. Looking down, he saw a satisfied smirk spread over James exhausted face. “You punk!” He laughed, feeling his eyes prickle.

  
“Gotcha.” Bucky breathed softly.

  
Their eyes had met and Steve could only beam and try to keep the tears in check. But he knew his Bucky was still in there.

  
So now, yes, here back at home more of the after effects of trauma had emerged and continued to emerge, but so had needling each other about Stark’s ridiculous therapy animals, cussing over YouTube when they learned who Bert and Ernie were, and the simple eager animal pleasure at making huge dinners of gobs of pasta and cheap red sauce with meat balls or hitting the all-you-can-eat pancake house. This was still his Bucky.

  
Steve made a mental note to tell Sam about the admission of possibly seeing things. It seemed small, but he knew better now that small could be significant.


	4. The Library Ghost Revisited

On Tuesday, Patty spotted Jillian a few blocks back from the library’s front steps. Shit. How hadn’t she noticed that? Somehow, Jillian being quiet about the whole prosthesis thing after last week had gotten Patty to drop her guard a little,but she knew better than to think the engineers mind wasn’t still obsessively chewing on ideas in quietly in the background.

  
Suspecting she’d been made, the engineer ducked behind a Nuts 4 Nuts cart, but her blonde hair and yellow glasses could still be clearly seen through the window above the roaster.

  
Patty took a gulp of coffee and pressed on. Was she seriously going to follow her to the library?  With any luck a low level call would come in that required some Holtzmann skills and Patty would be off the hook.

  
But as she tossed her empty cup and hurried up the steps, she spied the engineers lanky form again out of the corner of her eye. Patty wheeled on her, and seeing this, Jillian swiftly spun and, with no where to go, hid by bending over and pretending to tie her shoe in the middle of the sidewalk, much to the annoyance of morning commuters.

  
“Please give me strength…” Patty turned away from her coworkers upturned rump and shook her head, offering a beseeching glance at Patience and Fortitude. But the two lions had no words of advice. She hurried on trying to at least get a head start or possibly — please, God — lose her in the stacks.

  
Maybe it’d be a water haul.  Maybe baby boy wouldn’t be there, or he’d be late and Patty could quietly dispatch Jilly’s combat-boot-wearing-Inspector-Clouseau-ass before she opened her big mouth or whipped out some calipers on him.  Please lucky stars, please…

  
  
Rounding the isle of stacks leading to her usual table, her heart did both a flip and a dive.  He was already seated, head bent over a tome and fidgeting with a pencil as he read.

  
Patty froze, taking a deep breath. If it was all about to blow up, she wanted this at least: just to make a little mental picture of this perfect scene:

  
Quiet. Gold morning light across his table and soft swirling motes of dust…

  
Pretty blue eyes lost in concentration…

  
The roar of a cabbie outside calling a jay walker a mother fu—

  
“Jesus you walk fast. Where’s the target?”

  
Patty startled and spun on Jillian. “No. Just no.” She hissed in a whisper. “What part of ‘no’ is a mystery to you, girl?”

  
“C’mon. You need to break the ice and I want to pay it forward. I’ve never done a prosthesis before. I mean, not on a live person, of course. And those things are expensive. This is win-win.” The engineer tried to hold her ground, but Patty was body blocking her back towards the stairs.

  
“Would you get out of here!”

  
But Jillian craned to look over Patty’s shoulder and spotted the table.

  
Her eyes squinted, then widened. “Shut the front door… Oh my god, woman, are you goofy?” Gaze still locked on him, the corner of her mouth hitched up in an incredulous grin.

  
What?

  
Patty’s shoulders dropped and she cocked a hip. “Huh? You saying I can’t land that? Is that what that means?” She growled, indignant.

  
Jillian laughed and smacked her shoulder. “No bish! Don’t you know who that is?”

  
Patty blinked, lost.

  
“Oh shazbot. You totally don’t.” Holtzmann snickered. She slapped Patty’s shoulder again, covering her mouth and turned for the stairs. “Oh man, I gotta tell Abby…”

  
“Wait. What? Oh no you don’t!” Baffled, Patty seized the back of Jilly’s jacket before she could get away. How in hell had this turned around so fast? And what exactly did blondie know that she didn’t? “What about your research and moldy measurements?”

  
This made Jillian double over, hands over her mouth to catch a startled hoot of laughter. “Are you shitting me?” She snorted. “Of all people, I think he’s covered.”

  
Across the room, soldier boy looked up, but Patty had already shoved Holtzmann into the stacks and out of sight.

  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Patty hissed.

  
“You really don’t recognize him?”

  
“Who is he?” Patty pleaded.

  
“I can’t…” Jilly giggled, more to herself than in answer. “It’s too delicious… Okay, no… I gotta…” She looked up at Patricia and intoned in her best Zacherley voice, “He’s a ghooOOooOooost my dear!”  
  
  
———————————————  
  
James glanced up a moment when the woman he shared the table with hung her bag on her chair and sat down. She looked different. Worried? Sad? Nervous?

  
He stole another look as she very quietly began sorting her notes. Her eyes were down and she was biting her lower lip.

  
“You okay?”

  
Her eyes shot up, wide, but she quickly flashed him a smile. “Oh yeah. You know, a little work stress. But I’m fine, thank you.”

  
He smiled back and nodded.

  
Then she hurried into the stacks. Weird.

  
He went back to the book in front of him, but it wasn’t useful. There was nothing helpful in looking up ghost stories when you saw something spooky. They were all anecdotal and speculative. Or worse, written for entertainment value. Anyway, a book couldn’t tell him what he really wanted to know: Had his eyes just played tricks on him?

  
Also, was he more scared of seeing something that wasn’t there at all than he was of seeing something supernatural? His mouth twisted in a bitter smirk. In his experience, there was more to fear from the living than the dead.  And ghosts, well… The idea of ghosts was interesting.

  
When his table mate returned, she looked distracted still. Or was that frustration?  She sat anyway, and cast a critical eye over the meager bits of material she’d collected compared to her catalog notes. Someone was having a bad day.

  
James began to close the book he had on top, when he realized she was staring at it.

  
“You’re reading Mariah Llewellyn?”  She tapped a page of Apparitional Canines of New England.

  
“Just looking,” He began, but she cut him off.

  
“And there’s the Green Wood map volume I couldn’t find!”

  
He smiled and pushed it towards her.

  
The woman immediately covered her mouth, blushing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get in your business. We’ve just had a dozen calls and animal control’s about to pull their hair out…”

  
James frowned. “Animal control?”

  
“Yeah, some sneaky stray’s been playing hide and seek over there, so everyone calls them, and then it vanishes or they can’t find it and they call us.”

  
“Us?” James eyes narrowed.

  
The woman smiled and offered her hand. “Patricia Tolan, paranormal control.”

  
He shook with her. “James Barnes, eye witness.”  
  
  
……………………  
  
“Right, yeah, so something like a stray dog is low priority. If it’s just wandering around, not terrorizing someone, there’s no need to bust out the traps and all that.” Patty waved off imaginary equipment as she took a bite of her hot dog. “And that also gives us time.  Sometimes, if we do some homework, we figure out an alternative to the big guns.  Shoo them to the other side more, uh, naturally.”

  
He’d had so many questions, they’d moved outside and found a street cart for lunch. Patty couldn’t believe this…

  
James. His name was James. He lived in Brooklyn and had seen the tall lanky pooch that was giving people around Green Wood  Cemetery the willies and he could polish off a loaded street dog in two bites and holy shit, he wanted to hear all about her work, and Jillian could suck it because Patty had his name she could Google later and the sun was shining and today? Today was The. Best. Day. Ever.  
  
  
………………………  
  
  
“She’s been boo-hoo-ing in there for like half an hour.” Erin hissed, pacing outside the door of the office in the garage.

  
Kevin grimaced. “Should I go in?”

  
“I was thinking maybe I should…”

  
“When’s Abby coming back? I think she’d be better at this.”

  
“Oh…” Erin flapped her hands uselessly. “I really really hate this…”

  
“I know, right? That sound. Ug.” Kevin blanched.

  
Both of them flinched as the garage door rose. Yates strode into the station with Jillian scrambling behind her babbling, “I thought it was funny, okay? Who wouldn’t know?”

  
“Shut it.” Abby snapped and she wheeled on Erin and Kevin. “Has she been online yet?”

  
The honk of a nose being blown and deep sobs rose from behind the office door.

  
“Well, I guess that answers that. And you guys are just standing out here?” Abby looked Erin and Kevin up and down with disgust and they both turned red. “Yeah, that’s right, you cowards. Go stand in the corner with Jillian the comedy genius. Sheesh.”  Straightening and shaking her arms out, Yates blew out a deep breath, then very gently tapped and pushed the door open.

  
As she disappeared into the office, the other three heard her ask, her voice much softer, “Patty, sweetheart? It’s Abby. You okay?”

  
This was met with a torrent of words and wet sobs,“Abby. ABBY. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DID TO HIM? That was Bucky Barnes… Oh god… Do you know what they did?”

  
“I know honey. C’mon. Let’s go upstairs, okay?”

  
She emerged slowly with Patty clinging to her like an octopus, still crying. Glaring daggers at the other three as  she passed, Yates hugged Patty in tight and led her towards the stairs. “Let’s make some tea. Or maybe hot chocolate?”

  
Patty snuffled. “With marshmallows?”

  
“With marshmallows.”

  
“And Jim Beam?”

  
Abby nodded. “Marshmallows and Jim Beam.”

 

 

 


	5. Ways and Means

 

They’d been at the Tower almost half an hour, and James was awkwardly aware he’d been craning his head and panning the small  lounge room with its bright picture window reflexively, oh, probably about every other minute or so.

_I’m as bad as that poor cat at the shelter_. He smirked.  

It was alright though. Everything was fine… It was just…

This was his first meeting with Stark about the agreement to replace his arm. 

No. 

Not replace. 

Both his physical therapist and counselor had spoken to him about thinking of it that way… Develop a prosthesis for him. That was better. 

Anyway, Pepper had cleared her Friday schedule and planned double time to make this meeting pleasant.  She’d taken a car personally to pick them up in Vinegar Hill right after James physical therapy appointment, and catered a large lunch from Katz’s; which she chose to set out, not in one of the Tower’s enormous open concept dining rooms, but in the much cozier kitchenette and break lounge adjacent one of Tony’s work shops.

It went without saying that James was apprehensive, but trying to mentally tamp down his growing alarums set off by the new environment and the anticipation of seeing and speaking with Stark about, ug, his physical body, no less… Well, it seemed less threatening with his back to the wall on a soft couch, Pott’s smile and a stomach full of familiar comfort food right down to the coleslaw and matzo ball soup.

Also, Tony was “busy finishing something and eating on the fly” as Pepper said, and wouldn’t be disturbing - er, wait, no - joining them.

Fine. Butter us up Potts. He and Steve loved Katz’s.

Wait. Why would that be necessary?  Jesus… he didn’t already have a prototype, did he?

The thought of Stark hustling him into strapping something on — probably garish orange and gold, right?— while he chattered and made it explode through a demo of more capabilities than Inspector Gadget, immediately popped into his head. Oh god.  He shuddered and swallowed.

Chill out Barnes.  Stark hasn’t even seen the surgical site in person. Jesus, his pretty little lopsided torso with its gutted shoulder joint…

Suddenly he felt cold. Like chilled, cold. His mouth was instantly dry and he actually felt a wave of… what? Nausea? No no no. He sat up straight and forced a deep breath. 

Across from him, Steve paused from cutting a wedge out of his umpteenth spinach knish. “Buck? You okay?”

He forced a small head shake, but couldn’t speak just yet. Swallowing down the saliva that flooded his mouth as his stomach clenched again, he counted out another slow deep breath and began to systematically inventory environmental sensory information the way his therapist had coached him: the scent of the coffee and cold cuts, the nubbly texture of the couch apolstery, the drone and breeze of the air conditioner and fan on his face. Shit, Potts was even trying to mediate the possibility of claustrophobia with windows and air flow…

“Tell us what’s going on?” Steve’s eyes were wide and worried. 

“Nerves probably?” Pepper gave him a concerned frown.

Another tight lipped nod and James felt his face was flushed like with fever. 

Pepper knelt forward and put a glass of cool water in his hand.  “It’s okay. Remember, today is just show and tell for Tony, not you. He’s going to show you the workshop and you’ll see different robotics. But you don’t have to touch or be touched by any of it. You don’t have to make any decisions.”

“Just intel.” He managed.

Pepper smiled. “Exactly.”

It suddenly crystalized to James that he wasn’t this woman’s first PTSD case. Tony. Christ, he didn’t want to imagine that ego having a panic attack.

“Take a sip of water Buck.” 

He followed the order, letting the cool fluid rest in his mouth before swallowing.

“You doing the breathing?”

James could see Steve opening and closing his fists, resisting the urge to grip his shoulder or otherwise touch him. James nodded. “ ‘M okay…”  The wave of anxiety was blessedly receding and James let it, unexamined. When you picked at it, worried it, it sucked that energy up and grew…  He put his fist up for Rogers.

Steve smirked in relief and gave it a quick bump before reaching over and squeezing his shoulder and rubbing the back of his head and neck. Just watching the hot air of tension drain out of Rogers also helped. Mirroring or something? James didn’t care. He took another drink of the cool water and closed his eyes, focused on the pleasant feeling of the touch.

 

 

After a little cooling off period where Pepper reiterated that this was just a tour of the workshop and little get-to-know-you meeting, Pepper smiled and made a show of looking at her watch, “Let me just go check on how Tony is doing. Oh, and the restroom is right here. If anything comes up or you need anything, just give Jarvis a shout.” 

After she’d vanished, James sniffed and smirked at Steve. “Was that the flight attendant handing me an air sickness bag?”

Roger tried not to smile. “Might’ve been.”

“She’s nice.”

“Yep.” Steve agreed.

“So she’s in there trying to turn the volume down on Stark. Telling him to go easy on me?”

“Most likely even if it takes a cattle prod and a tranquilizer dart.”

“I like her.”  James began fishing in his pockets until he found the plastic bottle that rattled.

“How’re you doing now, Buck?” The humor left Steve’s eyes seeing the pills.

Fishing out one of the white tablets — his formulation of Xanax — James grimaced. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t put me so on edge. But, I’m… Shit.  I almost lost my lunch. My palms are sweating just thinking about thinking about it…” He frowned, looking down at the pill. “She’s worked hard to put all this together. I don’t want to tip over and ruin it.”

“Okay. Yeah,” Steve nodded. “It’s your decision. And later, you know, you’ll have the lay of the land. Hopefully future meetings won’t be so bad… What’s that for?”

James had positioned the tablet on a napkin and was splitting it with the edge of a fork. “Breaking the time release layers. Little emergency protocol Stark’s pharmacist showed me. Sam said it was okay in a tight spot.”

“Won’t you get all of it at once?”  Steve had on his best Captain-America’s-after-school-special-on-scary-scary-drugs face as he watched James split the tablet again.

“Pretty much. That’s why he suggested a quarter. It’ll still be boom and bust, but that should cover the next hour.” He swept the remnants back in the bottle, then pinched up the crumbling wedge and put it under his tongue. It was bitter, even not being right on top of his taste buds.

Steve squinted suspiciously at his sour look. “You done this before?”

James shook his head. He got a world class eye-roll in response.

“Great. I’m calling Sam when we get out here.”

Grinning only made the bitter flavor spread more, but he couldn’t help smiling to see Steve’s disapproving schoolmarm surface. Or maybe the drug was working already? The mouth was closer to the brain than the stomach, after all, right?

 

 

“You’re being awfully quiet. I mean, I’m giving you the Epcot Center World of Tomorrow private tour, and…” Stark stopped. He finally put down the nano tech floppy thing (designed to replace a forearm muscle) and looked to Pepper and Steve, with a theatrically exasperated look. “Seriously, has he said a single word?”

They’d been in the prosthetics lab about half an hour, with Stark doing his best Q outfitting James Bond impersonation, while name dropping connections and developers and loving praise on every limb and part he had lined up to show off.

“Tony, James has been giving you his full attention. This is a lot to take in. And I told you, remember—“

Stark nodded “‘Standing ovations are reserved for press conferences only’… I get it. I get it. Still!” He looked at James with a doubtful look and held up a clear disembodied arm where the jewel-like interior servos would have made a Steampunk enthusiast weep and tear their wallet in half to claw at their credit card faster. The arm waved at James, wiggled its fingers coquettishly at him, then spun the hand at the wrist as though exasperated and finally, of course, flipped him off.

“Tony!” Pepper snapped.

James smiled, a mild, but close-lipped smile. It was fine. Cool arm. He liked its personality. He wondered vaguely what it ate, and had to stifled a snicker.

“Wait a minute.”  Now Stark was leaning in closer, but not too close, and peering up in James face. “Dude. Are you high?”

James swished the last of the bitter Xanax laden spit around his mouth and managed to swallow. He looked Stark in the eye and held up his thumb and forefinger a teeny space. “Li’l bit.” Mostly he felt warm and drowsy.

“Oh my god.”

“Tony…” Pepper said warningly. “It was just something for anxiety…”

“I don’t care! I knew I liked this guy! So stoic and silent like — but you were excited!” He made as if to clamp onto James shoulder and pull him in for a hug, but stopped short and recovered quick. “Whoops. Right. Boundaries, soldier. I feel you. But you’ve got every reason to be excited. Now, have you given much thought to the blue color Pepper suggested?“

And Stark was off again, rambling through innovations available to tie-in even removable prosthetics with the spine and nervous system, fully natural range of motion that he was used too, as well as infinite options for enhanced customization…

 

Forty five minutes later, Steve was also looking as glazed as James felt without the benefit of anything but exposure to Tony’s ego, and Stark had shifted gears to planning and talking about scans and molds and measurements and medical records… Subjects James found made little adrenaline spikes cut into the rapidly fading warm pleasant fog.

But Pepper came to the rescue, tapping her watch meaningfully. “Tony.”

And Stark conceded. “Right. We’ve covered a lot. He needs time to process.” He walked them to the door of the lab, before looking James up and down and offering his hand. “Good meeting. It’ll be a pleasure to work with you on this project Sgt. Barnes.”

James shook, thanked Tony, then gratefully let Potts usher he and Steve to a car where the remains of the deli spread was waiting for them, neatly packed in white bakery boxes. He collapsed into the back, and watched as skyscrapers became the tops of warehouses over the door panel, trying not to think of any of the disembodied limbs he’d seen laid out on lab tables, trying not to consider thinking of one as a piece of himself.

Christ, he hated when the fear turned into the roller coaster. Already, between the events of the day and the quick burn through of the drug, he felt like a rung out dishrag. And of course, that was when the nagging little scary thoughts would start marching back in. 

When he was tired. When he couldn’t think clearly.

As the car crossed the bridge, James looked over to see Steve was deep in what was undoubtably a very serious texting bout with Sam about off label drug (ab)use. Then, to his surprise, his own phone chirped a text alert at him and he fished it out.

 

It was Caroline at the shelter asking if he could call. He tapped connect.

“Hey Caroline.”

“We’ve got a dog loose emergency. That big guy you were walking took off in Green-Wood. We’re short handed and I’m stuck at front desk  — the junior volunteer freaked out over losing him. Anyway, any chance you’re nearby?”

“Just getting back to the neighborhood. I think I can swing it. Can I call you right back?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, long day is all.”

“I hate to ask. Anything. Any help is something.”

Steve was staring at him disapprovingly. Clearly he’d heard both sides of the brief exchange.

“Lemme call you right back.”

Steve didn’t even wait as James put the phone down. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. And it’s not like he’s loose in traffic — it’s a park.”

“It’s a cemetery.”

“Ok. Cemetery. But be realistic — you’re completely worn out.”

He couldn’t deny that. He was definitely compromised.  

And both Sam and his therapist had called continuing to push in those situations ‘setting himself up for failure’. And for disassociation, and for panic…

…And he didn’t want to admit it to Steve, but the heavy fuzzy feeling of the Xanax was hitting its second wave, probably due to the last crumbs of drug that were deep bound in the polymer finally becoming available.

“I know. I just… I hate this…” He groaned. “The one time the shelter reaches out, I’m useless. I shouldn’t have taken that pill. I don’t like that feeling.”

Rogers frowned. “You shouldn’t feel bad about that. I thought it helped.”

James didn’t know how to explain. “It does. It feels great — it’s pure relief. It’s just…” The look on Rogers face was painful. “It’s like there’s this part of me that’s still aware, like in a little box, that feels guilty and helpless about the relief. I just hate being doped up, and I hate that it feels better to use it but I can’t turn it off when I need to.”

None of this had made the stricken look on Steve’s face soften and James realized, humiliated, this was as much as he’d confessed about it to him. Ever.  That look was a good clue why.

The rest of the drive was made in silence.

They reached the apartment building and Steve quickly thanked the driver and whisked James into the lobby.

“Buck.  I’m sorry. Look, what if I went to help?”

James stopped himself from asking what Steve could punch that would solve a skittish dog going AWOL and instead focused on the fact that his friend was actually offering to give up his afternoon and evening of mother hen-ing over him — as was his post panic attack ritual.

“You’d do that?”

“I don’t want to leave you here, but sure.”

James smirked a little. Guilt if ya do, guilt if ya don’t.

“Wait. Maybe I know someone else who can help.”

 

“Sorry mate, There’s no Patricia Tolan here.” Kevin chuckled and examined the offending phone receiver, shaking his head.

“Stop!” Patty sprinted for the reception desk. “For the last damn time, my full name is not just Patty! That’s so flattering you think I’m like Beyonce or some shit, but I have a full first and last name!”

Across the room, Jillian snickered where she was hunched over Skyrim.

Patty slapped both palms on Kevin’s desk and glowered at him while making a grabby hand gesture for the phone.

Blinking up at her, he cleared his throat into the receiver. “Pardon me. Patricia Tolan, of course. May I tell her whom is calling? Yes. One moment.”

He put a hand over the mouthpiece and held the phone out for Patty. “A James Barnes for you.”

“WHAT.” Patty’s hands fell quivering to her sides.

“A James Barnes for you.” Kevin repeated, looking a little confused. He waggled the proffered phone at her.

Instantly, Jillian was at her side grinning. She lifted one of Patty’s shock-limp arms towards the receiver helpfully.

Patty’s brain finally managed to kick back in and she took the phone shakily. “H-hello? Yes.  No, of course I remember you! Phantom dogs over hot dogs. Uh huh.” She tried to shoo Jillian away.

Jilly just dodged while giving her a thumbs up of encouragement. “It’s either this or I pick up the line downstairs.” She whispered. “Deal with it.”

Giving up, Patty focused on what James had to say.

“Dog walker at Sean Casey. Right.”

At that moment Abby and Erin jogged up the stairs holding take-out bags aloft. “Soup’s on!” Abby sang.

“Sssshhhhh!” Jilly hissed.

“Oh, you did not just shush me.”

Jillian rolled her eyes and shushed again, pointing at Patty and the phone. “Our girl’s on the phone with her boo.” She growled.

Baffled, Erin stepped closer. “Isn’t that kind of every call?” 

Kevin stood up formally, posed at parade rest. “It’s a Mr. James Barnes.” He told them.

Dropping her take-out bag, Erin shuffled back as a styrofoam clam popped and burped tiki masala sauce across her shoe. “Really? Is he like with Captain America right now?”

“James, um, could you excuse me just one moment?” Patty asked calmly then reached over and pressed the mute button on the desk.  “WOULD YOU JACKALS BACK OFF.”

Click. Patty’s voice was a calm lilt again. “James? Go on.  A chow mix? Kinda orangey brown? Uh huh. I can check it out.”

 

 

“Really? You’re going to suit up for this? You shouldn’t be taking the Ecto-2 — it’s not official business.” Abby grumbled.

“There’s been that ghost dog sighting there.” Patty countered, zipping up her coveralls.

Abby watched Jillian march by with something that looked like an oxygen tank wearing a grenade bandolier and with a dozen corded traps flung over her shoulder. “No. No, and also, no. First, we aren’t the city dog catchers. Second, even if I shrugged off using the car to help catch a normal stray ‘cause you got the hots for the Winter Soldier —“

Abby froze mid-sentence, to look up at Patricia now towering over her with a dead-faced glare. 

“Do. Not. Call. Him. That.”

Cowed, Yates glared back. “Fine. Sorry. We’ll call this a favor, but at least you have to say no to the heavy guns.”

Peeking into the crammed arsenal Holtzmann had added to their regular call gear in the back hearse, Erin blanched. “She’s right, Patty. You wouldn’t want anything to happen at an irreplaceable site like Green-Wood.”

Ignoring them, Patty shouldered past Jillian to slam the back door. She climbed into the car and hit the auto locks, then cracked the window. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Holtzmann pointed to herself, then jiggled the locked door handle

“No. I’m not.” Patty told her, then looked at Abby. “And you don’t need to worry about the equipment because it’s all staying in the car. I’m just helping a friend catch a lost dog.”


	6. Spectral Photography

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And welcome back to the weird fic that, I think, like maybe eight people are reading? It's a very exclusive club! Anyway, just a quick heads up that this bit wraps up the portion that had been previously posted, so updates may be slower, but it'll be fresh material.

At James’ apartment, Steve herded him to the couch, and flipped on a PBS channel. For some reason, Rogers had decided The Great British Baking Show and This Old House were G-rated enough for frayed nerves. James didn’t care. Rogers could put on Sesame Street as long as he didn’t go into another lecture about the misuse of pharmaceuticals. Googling the dosage conversion in the car told Steve that James had just eaten enough Xanax to make the Hulk sit quietly and finger paint, so super soldier metabolism or not, Captain America was going to be speaking to Stark’s pharmacist about this.

Watching Steve stalk into the kitchen, James settled into the sofa cushions and toed off his shoes, then checked his phone, even though no text alerts had chimed.  He messaged Caroline that he was sick but found a friend to go track down the dog — someone familiar with Green-Wood — and he forwarded her Patty’s number. What would a ghost hunter know about Green-Wood? Could she check for others spirits and phantoms while she was there? Would she go in with Snausages and a whistle for the spectral dog, or with night vision goggles, a ouija board and holy water? Ug. …On top of feeling useless, he was actually jealous of how interesting a person he’d tapped for such a mundane chore. Although —and he smirked a little at this — it had given him an excuse to talk to her again besides just hoping he’d see her at the library.  Ghosts were a lot more interesting than being babysat by Rogers and slotted neatly back into your safe, calm, and (sigh) dull, weekly schedule…

The rummaging in the kitchen told him Steve was putting away the leftovers. “I’m making coffee. You want some?”

“Sure.”

“Decaf?”

“I only have decaf.” James sniffed irritably and checked his phone again.

“I’ll go downstairs and get some regular if you want.”

Wow. 

Rogers must really be worried about the downers, or trying to cheer him up. The offer was tempting if the caffeine would cut through this damned lingering drowsiness, but he wasn’t supposed to have it. Steve knew that. “Mm. No. S’okay. Thanks.”

While the coffee perked, Steve joined him. “What are they working on?”

“Trifle.” Buck made a face, then glancing at Steve, huffed a laugh to see the same wrinkled nose. Both having survived on military rations and so much reconstituted food that amounted to mush, neither could think of custards or puddings as much of a treat. And it was definitely a waste to soak perfectly good ladyfingers in the goop. God. He was making cooking show small talk. And worse, he had opinions about it. Is this what the steady routine had done to him?

“Wake me when these jokers get serious,” James growled and dropped back into his corner of the sofa, grunting to shift and get his shoulder socket comfortable and hugging his cell against his chest with his good arm.

Steve had already fished out his sketchbook and started work. “Will do.” 

 

James couldn’t nap though. He lay in a comfortable limbo, eyes closed, to the chipper soft chatter droning on TV.  It was a relief, to not move or need to think and do and act while the drug ran its half-life through him. But eventually it wore off, and all the teeth of the spinning gears in his head found purchase and began to lock together, churning out clear thoughts.

“What time is it?”

Steve looked at his watch. “About 7.”

“So… It’s been two hours?”

“About that, yeah.”

“Green-wood is almost 500 acres.”

Steve rubbed his head and sighed. “You don’t think your friend would call if she ran into trouble?”

James frowned. “You’re right. Or she could be talking to Caroline…”

“You want me to go help?”

“No. No. It’s fine.”

What James wanted, honestly, was to grab a flashlight and go join her himself. And ask paranormal questions, or possibly see an actual spirit, maybe… But he suspected that would go over with Rogers about like telling him he had dreams of competitive bull riding. 

Presently, Steve leaned forward and set his sketchbook and pencil box down on the coffee table, before straightening a little and studying the guy in coveralls doing grout repair on PBS. “So, ah, what did you think of Stark’s show and tell? Some of those designs were pretty impressive.”

James felt the familiar anxious stab of adrenaline bloom through his back and chest. Great, Steve. This is how you want to change the subject? Oh boy. Please not now…

Thank god his phone chimed and James quickly fished it out of the couch cushions to look at the text.

Patty had sent a selfie from the cemetery. She was grinning, an arm around the massive orange shoulders of the old dog, who was slobbering on her cheek. “Found your boy.” The text read. “Headed to the shelter. Hope you feel better. :)”

A smile snuck across James’ face and he texted back. “You’re a lifesaver. I owe you the next round of hotdogs. I hope he’s behaving.”

“He’s an angel. I think he got tired and turned himself in.”

Rogers looked at him askance, and James held out the photo to him.  

Steve smiled, “That’s great… ah…” His eyebrows went up.

“What?”

“What’s that?” 

James turned the phone back to see where Steve had pointed. “What?”

“Right there. That another dog?”

Over Patty’s shoulder in the upper left-hand corner, half blended in the dark, was a rough square shadow with two gold coin eyes.

“Shit!” James dropped the phone as though scalded.

Steve jumped up and held his hands out. “Easy Buck, easy…” He retrieved the cell from under the couch and held it a long moment studying the photo. “That’s what you saw the other night? Isn’t it?” He asked slowly.

“Yeah. Christ. Just wasn’t expecting…”  Steve was... smiling? “What’s that look for?”

“Well, you weren’t seeing things. It’s right there. You’ve got proof and everything.” Steve stared at the screen and even enlarged the photo, beaming at it.

“Jesus, you’ve got a weird reaction to spotting a ghost.” James knew damn well it was more like relief — the same relief that was pouring over him like a soft wave a warm water down his back. His head and senses had worked fine that night. Not a flashback, hallucination or something worse from his scrambled brain. A real ghost — as much as immaterial spirits could be said to be real? Whatever. Leave that to the parapsychologists. But it was an actual thing that could be seen and photographed. “Gimme that.”

He studied the photo, zooming in on the dark animal face, but no additional features emerged. Shadowy branches of a climbing rose leaning on the rock wall behind them even formed a tracery visible through the dog’s head.

Swallowing, James tapped out out a reply to Patty. “You see the same thing over your shoulder?”

Incoming text bubbles appeared. “Aw, damn it! I told you Animal Control was blowing up our phone over that guy. Haha. What a sneak.”

“Jesus. I have so many questions. You going to be at the library Tues?”

“Duh? Cheah! You owe me hotdogs! ;) Remember?”

James felt himself smile despite himself.

“What are you grinning at?” Steve gave him a bemused look.

“Nothing. I think I’ve got a date with a ghost hunter.”

 

—————————————

 

When Patty finally returned to the station, unpacking the Ecto and shrugging out of her gear, Kevin took one look downstairs at her before stating the obvious: “That’s a dog.” 

Erin’s head immediately appeared around the doorway beside him. “A very large dog.” She added. “A huge dog.”

“You know you were supposed to take it back to Sean Casey, right?” Abbey scoffed, coming down the stairs.

Patty cocked a hip and the hairy slobbery thing at her side whined and sat, then looked up at her as best he could with hair that looked like a matted toupee sliding into his eyes.

“I did take him back. And then I did the paperwork. Look, this is an old firehouse. I thought we should have like a Dalmation or something, you know, to do the dog thing.”

“Dalmations historically were carriage dogs — um, ornaments.” Erin put in with a nervous look between the animal and Abby. Patty gave her a WTF look. “What I mean is, they didn’t actually _do_ anything.”

“Exactly!” Patty clapped her hands and pointed finger guns at Erin. “See, he’s perfect. He’s probably ten years old. Doesn’t do shit except sniff, shed, and love on people who don’t deserve him.”

Abby considered this with a tight-lipped nod. “Well, crap. I can relate to that. He got a name?”

“Balthazar!” Jillian shouted from upstairs.

“No.” Said everyone.

“It can be a group project.” Patty smiled at the dog and rumpled his toupee. “But first, we gotta clean up this rat’s nest. You’re fronting for the company now. C’mon you.”

 

About an hour later, Patty had the animal washed and combed and had even parted and trimmed the longest hair on his head into soft eyebrows to keep it out of his eyes. Presently he was surfing around the common room, introducing himself, while Holtzmann played Skyrim from a beanbag chair and the others divided up a mushroom and sausage thin crust for dinner. 

Erin patted the dog hesitantly, noting his neatly coifed fur now smelled a lot like Kevin’s styling mist.

“James likes pizza.” Holtzmann announced to the room.

“Quit calling him James.” Patty snapped. “And quit giving him junk food. He’s got gas bad enough already.”

“Bite your tongue, woman. Pizza is NOT junk food.” Jilly scoffed. “And if my new trap can suck up aether AND ectoplasm, it can suck up a dog fart or two.”

Patty looked to Erin and Abby for help. Erin’s mouth hung open, but Abby just shook her head ruefully. “No help here. You do not malign pizza in this house.”

“It’s bread and grease and cheese. And yes, it’s delicious — I’m not crazy — but it’s not health food and it definitely isn’t Dog Chow.”

“Fair enough. But you better come up with a name soon before James or Bucky sticks.”

“Maybe you should ask James what to name him?” Erin suggested trying to wiggle her eyebrows.

Abby’s mouth and eyes made perfect ‘O’s of joy at this. “Now there’s an idea! Why don’t you give ol’ blue eyes a call!”

“Y’all are so mean. So mean.” Patty turned away and patted her thigh, and instantly the dog shuffled over to her, tail swishing. “Also, his eyes are more a light grey,” She snipped. “C’mon big man, let’s go find you some better dinner.”


	7. A Tuesday Lunch Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, short chapter is short, but I'm about to go apartment sit for my cousin in New York, so I'm sorta feeling this fic again...

Patty felt that the best way to avoid awkward BS was to always address elephants in the room. Don’t be shy or subtle about it — just grab a bag of peanuts and handful of hay and get it over with. She was a crap actor, and pretending she didn’t know who James was now felt deceitful and well, just dumb, and that was very much _not_ her style, so…

“I googled you.” She blurted and made what could only be described as an awkward shrug with her whole face.

“Googled me?” James put his drink down, eyes narrowing.

They were in a corner booth of a pizza slice joint near the library.

“Yeah…” Patty sighed. “Look, my friend was screwing with me because I didn’t recognize you, so…” She bobbled her head around in a yadda yadda yadda kind of way. “And to be fair, on the news and stuff they really only like to show the pics of you from a jillion years ago or in that black leather getup with the… …You know…” She couldn’t say it, so she just circled a finger in front of her mouth and nose indicating the muzzle. 

She tried to read his eyes. This guy had been through the ringer, and maybe she’d just totally stepped in it bringing the past up? Who wanted to keep rehashing that for people?

“Anyway, I just wanted to be open about it, you know? I’m not gonna mind your business — much.” She searched his face. That very pretty face…

“I googled you too.”

“What!”

He smiled a little. (!!!) “I can’t send just anyone out on dog rescue missions.”

“Ugh! You find the Harvey Wallbanger birthday photos?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, then we’re even. Done.” She sat back and crossed her arms. 

James snickered. “What’s in one of those?”

“Rumor has it orange juice. And I keep looking for it, but so far I’ve only found vodka.”

“Keep searching. It looked orange in the pictures. I’m sure it’s in there somewhere.”

 

Patty grabbed them slices at the counter, and then grinned to watch James expertly fold his to eat one-handed like a true New Yorker. She felt like little hearts would bubble out of her chest, oh sweet Brooklyn boy… “So you said you’d gotten calls about Green Wood. Was that part of your library work — were you already going to investigate the cemetery?” He asked.

“Well, it’s on our list, but to be honest, unless they’re really being a nuisance, we mostly focus on bigger problems. You know, ghosts of people. Or things we can’t identify.”

His eyes went wide as he chewed and swallowed. “Can’t identify?”

“They’re not all dead things.”

Judging from his face, this only made the confusion worse, so she tried again. “Um.  Things that weren’t ever alive to die and become ghosts. Stuff not of this plane.”

He looked doubtful. “Demons?”

“I prefer not to get into the whole Anton LeVey thing.  I’d say we don’t know exactly what they are. And some maybe could be tulpas.”

“What’s that in English?”

“Sorry. He’s the dude that started the church of Satan.”

“No, I mean a tulpa.”

“Oh. Ok… It’s like if a bunch of people believe in something hard enough, and they give it energy by talking and telling stories about it, there’s a metaphysical belief that it can… um. …manifest.” Crap.  How did they immediately get into the creepier stuff? If she made him sleep with the light on was she going to have Avengers breathing down her throat, or worse, a giant blue-eyed gaze of disappointment from foxy grandpa Captain America?

“So, like a kid’s boogeyman or maybe Bigfoot?”

“Damn, Sam. You pick this high weirdness up fast, don’t you?”

This got another smile from James. “Well, it’s interesting. I don’t know…  I could use a little interesting lately.”

“Yeah?” She let that dangle, mirroring his small smile, waiting.

He sighed. “I have a routine. And it’s good. Really.”

“But not many rainbows or unicorns?”

“Not even a single leprechaun.”

She nodded and sighed. “That sucks. I mean, routine is good, but everyone needs some spice. Some intrigue.  Is that what the library is for? Or are you there doing homework?”

He studied the table a moment. “Sort of homework, I guess.” He shifted and looked up. “I have a lot of memory gaps. I’ll look up events and places I remember, or sort of remember — or ones Steve remembers and then I try to go visit those locations. See how they’ve changed or if there’s anything familiar. Little field trips.”

“Is it helping?”

He shrugged. “Most of the time it’s all new.  I feel like that asshole in Memento. But when something clicks, it can be great. Sometimes it’s a flood though.”

“And that’s bad?”

“It can be.” He tossed his head and she thought she saw some forced nonchalance.

She nodded, not wanting to prod at a personal nerve. “The research side — that’s a bit like what I’m doing—“

“So when I had the books you wanted — you _were_ planning on going to Green Wood.”

“Oh, we’re back to that huh?  Okay, yeah. We’ve gotten a lot of calls. I wanted to have the info in my back pocket in case it became a priority. But honestly, I don’t think it’s a problem.  Dogs like parks — even the dead ones. He ain’t hurting nobody. Let the player play. And besides, how boring would it be if we hit the town and Hoovered up every damn thing that went bump in the night? A city needs some color, you know?”

James cracked a smile again, and Patty felt a giddy satisfaction.

“Just don’t you dare tell my partners I said that.  They’ll think I joined ghost Greenpeace or some shit.”

“Mum’s the word.” He nodded, still with a small smirk. “The other books you had. The bridge designs?  What were those for?”

Oh.

The truth was that something had shifted, possibly the weather or time of year, but they’d had a lot of reports from cabbies to commuters to the tour guides driving those double decker monsters back and fourth from Brooklyn about activity at a center point on the bridge. Over the water. While a lot of ghost activity didn’t lead to a happy back story, she especially didn’t want to bring up suicides to James; not when she’d just gotten a smile.

“We’re trying to figure that out. Maybe an old boat accident? Or something that happened during construction — it’s all just fact gathering right now.”

He twisted his mouth. “Oh. Right. Well, I was just going to say, I, uh, I used to do dock work down there, back when. Right underneath. Might be something I know about the area…”

“Are you asking to help me?”


End file.
